As her little blue-eyed May's that night,
When she stood by her dead mother's side.

No--I will not say he was unkind;
But she had been used to love and praise.
He was somewhat grave--perhaps, in truth,
Could not weave her joyous, smiling youth,
Into all his stern and serious ways.

She, who should have reigned a blooming flower,
First in pride and honour, as in grace,--
She, whose will had once ruled all around,
Queen and darling of us all--she found
Change indeed in that cold, stately place.

Yet she would not blame him, even to me,
Though she often sat and wept alone;
But she could not hide it near her death,
When she said with her last struggling breath,
"Let my babies still remain my own!"

I it was who drew the sheet aside,
When he saw his dead wife's face. That test
Seemed to strike right to his heart. He said,
In a strange, low whisper, to the dead,
"God knows, love, I did it for the best!"

And he wept--Oh yes, I will be just--
When I brought the children to him there--
Wondering sorrow in their baby eyes;